


Grace

by Nicolinan



Series: ANL-series [3]
Category: Red Eye (2005)
Genre: Crazy Old Lady, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Miami, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicolinan/pseuds/Nicolinan
Summary: After chasing Lisa across the country, and finally finding her, Jackson makes the largest sacrifice of them all to save the only one he cares about. This is what happened afterwards.





	1. Crime Scene Investigations

**Chapter 1. Crime Scene Investigations**

'  _ January 4, 2008 _

_ Our new apartment is nice.  _

_ Really nice.  _

_ Expensive-nice.  _

_ New. Bright. Panoramic windows facing the ocean. Two bedrooms. Second floor.  _

_ I can breathe here. It only takes us a minute to walk down to the beach. And there's a playground and a park close by, a park with a few trees for shade.  _

_ I like that there are only a few trees. That's quite enough.' _

My steps echo in the empty rooms as I close the book and walk up to the giant window. I wonder how it will stand a real storm. It's supposed to be constructed with that in mind. I guess we'll find out when that happens. The apartment smells fresh, new, with a hint of wood and plastic, the cupboards unused, the toilet never soiled, no one else's hair in the drain. 

Outside it's quiet and still. The moon is full and blood red, huge, hanging, dangling, right at the horizon, reflecting in the peaceful ocean. The tranquility of the scenery in a way the same that I experienced in the cabin, and still so very different.

I grip my side and fight the urge to cough. If I start it never stops and I know by now that if I subdue the reflex it passes after a while. I know I'm not supposed to, they told me that the cough is meant to clear the airways, but I cough until it feels as if I'm about to start spitting blood, and that just can't be right.

Cecilia is sleeping soundly, snoring, still having a bit of a cold, but she's healing quickly. Quicker than me. Sometimes my little girl seems to be made out of steel and reminds me whose daughter she is - too. She's wrapped up in a thick blanket on a mattress on the floor in the next room. Myself, I have the most twisted sleeping habits. I haven't lain down yet. I drink tea, think, write a little, and just exist. 

It's all a bit unplanned, more or less on a whim. But I feel free.

Dawn is only an hour away. Yet another sleepless night lies behind me. Yet another warped day awaits, where I'm barely awake, barely believing I'm back here, and at the same time hypersensitized, experiencing everything so clearly as if through a magnifying glass. Every scent, every breeze, the warm rays from the sun, the sand between my toes, my daughter's breathing, every heartbeat.

Every memory.

' _ January 7, 2008 _

_ We've lived here a week now.  _

_ Our beds arrived today. Pocket springs. Luxurious. Some Swedish brand I found. I bought two. She'll grow into hers eventually.  _

_ Everything we own is new. We came here with only the clothes on our bodies and my journals in a bag and we had to go on a shopping spree the first thing after settling in at the hotel. I never went back to the cabin again. I didn’t want one single item from it.  _

_ We didn't stay at the Lux. I haven't been by there yet, it's… it evokes memories.  _

_ Cecilia has accepted her new surroundings with a child's amazing capability to adjust. She keeps talking about 'Dad'. I simply tell her that he's gone.  _

_ I'm done with lying. _

_ At least to her.' _

Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, I take a sip out of my coffee mug and then I smile wickedly at my daughter. "I'm coming to get you! Tickletickletickle." She squeals and runs across the room, climbing up on one of the new beds. I run after her, jumping up on the other bed and begin to bounce. We bounce up and down on our new beds and laugh before it comes to an abrupt stop for me when I have a coughing fit and fall into a sweaty, coughing, laughing heap. When she grows tired of hugging, she slithers off the bed and picks up paper and crayons and starts drawing circles… no, squares and dots… ah, well - whatever it is she's drawing. 

The dots remind me of the snow, and I shudder from the memory. I wonder how much she remembers - how much she will remember. She hasn't asked where he went, why he's gone. Maybe she's too small to follow up on the 'dad's gone' statement. And when she's older she won't recall any of this.

Unless I help her.

I don't know how to keep his memory alive. The easiest would be to just not talk about him, but that wouldn't be fair to either of them. How will his heritage affect her? She was conceived during a rape and her father was a murderer. Not just any murderer either… he was a professional assassin. 

It's a pedagogical nightmare.

Cecilia comes running and pushes a drawing into my hands, then she runs off to her writing corner again. As I try to think of Jackson's good traits, at least one, I study the multicolored circles on the paper.  _ She _ trusted him from the first moment. She saw something in him that I couldn't. I'll tell her about that. About how they found each other in spite of everything. He did save her life. I cling to the memory. That is something to hold on to and to let her know about.

' _ April 14, 2008 _

_ I visited the Lux Atlantic today.  _

_ It was exactly as difficult as I had figured. Everybody came to see me. Everybody. It was overwhelming. But the girls demanded to come by tomorrow night. Cynthia, Olivia, Sandra, and Jane, all of them. The front desk quartet.  _

_ I'm terrified. I've been away from people for so long that I don't know how to get back into socializing. But somewhere deep inside it feels amazing that they remember me, that they'll take me in even though I never used to let them in. _

_ I feel… happy.' _

The doorbell clings softly. At first I don't even know what the sound is through the music, then I realize what it is and rush to the door. I haven't heard it since the first week I got here. Four beautiful women pour through my door; wine bottles in hand, large multi-colored flowers, bags with cute children's clothes from expensive stores, chitter-chattering. It's overwhelming and I don't know how to handle them. I smile in all the appropriate places and feel how I distance myself, how I keep them and their offered friendliness away. I've lost too many people, been hurt too much. I don't think I'll let anyone in, ever again.

We eat and they update me on everything Lux; the restoration, the new manager who took my place, the new cook, old customers. I sit opposite Cynthia and feel twinges of guilt. She always confided in me and always let me in. Now I see a slight hesitation in her gaze and I sense that she isn't quite here.

A little like me.

I wonder how she got that inch-long scar under her right eye. It makes her look a little older, a little less child-like. A lot has happened, I guess. It's been a long time.

After the main course, and a couple glasses of wine, I'm beginning to relax. They're fun. Spanish and English are thrown recklessly through the air. Olivia has a new boyfriend who snores like a troll and she is seriously considering getting rid of him for that reason only. Sandra offers repeatedly to let 'the poor man' sleep in her bed, and they engage in a lively discussion about what's hot and what's not in a man. 

None of them have any problems finding men; Olivia with her cat eyes and olive skin, courtesy of a mother from somewhere in Asia and a Colombian father, and Sandra, who came on a little boat from Cuba when she was a toddler, shorter than me, thick curly hair and black eyes that flash with mischief, discards one rich boyfriend after another. I can imagine the vision when they go out with tall, platinum blonde Jane, chattering, dancing. I sit with my mouth open and just listen. They seem so young. Was I like that once? I know I was. Just like that.

I feel so old.

As the others put the plates in the dishwasher, I put Cece to bed. She falls asleep with her head in my lap while I read to her, exhausted from all the excitement and all the attention.

Exiting her room, I almost walk right into Cynthia.

"Hey you," she says in a low voice.

"Hey," I answer.

"Can I talk with you? Just for a few minutes? Alone." She wrings her hands and looks almost afraid.

Worry wells up inside me for no clear reason and I nod. "Sure." I nod towards the living room with a question in my eyes.

"They're drinking, and they're still discussing men. They're in bliss." She rolls her hazel eyes and gives me a half-smile.

"In here." I pull her gently into the bathroom and close and lock the door. "What is it?" My concern is now very livid and my heart pounds hard. No matter what it is, I just know it's bad. Unexpected things are always bad.

"Uhm…" she starts. "After you had quit at the Lux, and then moved… maybe five or six months after you left us… you must've given birth by then…" He voice falters and I nod, encouraging her to go on, even though I know I don't want to hear.

"After work one night, I'd worked late... it was before I met Craig."

She's stuttering and swallowing and it's so obvious how hard this is for her that I actually stretch out and lay my hands on hers. "What is it Cyn? What happened?"

"There was a man in my apartment when I got home… he attacked me… he had the strangest blue eyes… almost spooky…"

My knees weaken and the food in my stomach suddenly feels like concrete. I swallow repeatedly to prevent it from come rushing up. I hear the rest as through a thick fog.

"…beat me really bad…"

"…hour after hour…"

"…asking for you…"

"…didn't think I'd make it…"

I slam open the toilet lid and throw up until there's nothing left and all that comes up is bitter gall. I feel hands in my hair, and a cool hand on my forehead, and I'm so ashamed. Ashamed that I happened to pull her into this; that she had to experience that. Ashamed that all this time I've been feeling like it's me, and always me, that I'm the one that everything happens to, that I've been so sickeningly self-centered.

When I look up at her, her makeup is smudged and she's crying quietly. I wipe my cheeks and realize that I'm crying too.

"Lisa… it was the man from the plane… wasn't it?"

I regard her and then a horrifying thought strikes me. With lips so numb from fear that I can barely produce the words, I still have to ask. "Did he rape you, Cynthia? DID HE RAPE YOU?" I hiss, and then slap my own hand across my mouth, hoping the others didn't hear me.

She looks at me, frowning. "No. He did a lot of… things." She swallows hard. "It's hard to talk about…"

I nod quickly. "I understand."

"But no… he didn't rape me… he didn't do anything… sexual… at all…" She suddenly grabs my upper arm hard, too hard, her gaze shifting rapidly between my belly and my face. "Oh my God, Lisa! That's what it is, isn't it? You met him again. That's why you disappeared. He raped you, didn't he?" She nods towards the door, in the direction of my beautiful baby, sleeping peacefully in her bed. "She's… Oh, God!"

My cheeks are so hot, my throat hurts and I want to flee. I don't want to talk. Then I look at her scar and cringe. She knows. She knows about him and she's been to hell and back. Like me. I can trust her. I'm not the only one who's been hurt. Who said that? HE said it… I'm somehow sure this wasn't what he had in mind. Or maybe it was?

"Can we talk about this later?" I whisper. "Really… talk?"

She nods. "How do we explain this to the girls, Leese?"

We straighten and look at ourselves in the mirror. Cynthia doesn't look half as bad as I do, she dabs some cold water on her cheeks and wipes under her eyes and then she looks fine. I'm swollen and puffy-eyed.

"Do you feel like continuing the night?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"I'm so sorry, Leese!"

"Don't be! I'm actually… happy… even if it sounds really weird."

She frowns and looks strangely at me. "Believe me, it does."

I can't help the smile. This is Cynthia. Carefree. Witty. Funny. Maybe, just maybe, I can find her again. All of a sudden there's a flicker of hope within me.

Maybe I can find myself again.

' _ April 17, 2008 _

_ I used to think of him a lot because I felt like I had to in order to survive. I needed to keep my focus and never forget. Now I have moved back home, where the open ocean soothes my need for air and the bright sky lifts me up. It helps a little. No. It helps a lot. But he still lingers. _

_ He's dead. So why do I keep feeling this pain? Why doesn't it go away? _

_ It hurts just as much every time as I see him throw himself after her before disappearing into the ravine. He gave his LIFE for her… _

_ And how did I treat him? What did I make of his last days? Cecilia's father. _

_ God. I'll never be free, will I? _

_ I'm almost afraid of meeting Cynthia again. It feels as if I hurt her, as if I'm to blame. It felt so right when she was here but now, that I'm meeting her again tonight, my courage fails me. _

_ Okay, time's up. Gotta go.' _

She's cut her red hair into a short bob and there's a new air of self assurance surrounding her. I think of my own hunched posture and straighten my shoulders, feeling ashamed that I've lost it so. We're meeting at our favorite Cuban bar. It's still early and the music isn't too loud. Cynthia's ordered two Seabreezes and I smile as the waiter sets them down on the table.

"You remembered! I haven't had one of these in ages," I say as I caress away the fog on the rim of the glass.

"You haven't had much fun in a long time, now have you?"

I shake my head as I take a first sip. It's stronger than I remember it, but not as strong as I need it. "No."

"I have to tell you, Lisa, I  _ really _ like that you've put on some more eye makeup. It suits you, enhances your eyes, like turning a leaf, a new you."

That makes me proud and I straighten even further. I agree. It does look nice. I left home and felt kind of good about it. We eye each other for a moment, hesitantly, and then we spend the first drink talking about harmless things, avoiding all things Jackson Rippner. When we've just received the second round, Cynthia breaks the deceptive calm and peacefulness we've both managed to lull ourselves into.

"What happened, Leese?"

I take a much larger swallow. "A lot."

"He raped you?"

I frown and think back. I still hate to admit that he did, but I've decided to come clean with myself and that I need to include Cynthia in this because of the part she had to play. "Yes."

"When?"

"A month after… the bombing."

"You getting pregnant surprised us all! No one could figure it out. We all bugged you about who the father was and I remember you hinted about a guy in another state. You seemed  _ off _ somehow, but that seemed natural after what you'd been through. Heh, we must've been  _ such _ a pain in your ass! Leese… what happened,  _ really _ ?"

I squirm. "Oh please, you go first."

She looks at me one moment too long. "I gotta pee." And she's gone. I caress a spot on the table, scraping off some unknown substance with the nail on my index finger, as I wait for her to return. I catch myself doing it and have to scrape whatever-it-was off my nail instead. I know I'm a compulsive cleaner; three years of working in hotels, cleaning rooms, waiting tables, working my way from the bottom up while I went to college, leaves its trace.

I wish I could just run off while she's away. I already know this is going to be painful and I don't want to go there. Cynthia seems to have handled things so differently. Maybe I can too?

Suddenly, she's back, smiling. " _ Man _ , that felt good! Where were we?"

I regard her. "I want to know how you got that scar. I  _ really _ need to know, actually."

Her features darken a shade and some of that lightness leaves her. "Promise you won't pity me. I'm kinda done with the angst on this one and I  _ don't _ wanna go there again."

And I realize what a beautiful idea that is, how clever that is of her. I smile. "As long as you promise not to pity  _ me _ ."

"Deal."

She takes a large sip from her drink and inhales, a brief, apologetic smile passing her features. "All right. He - Jackson, right? - was in my apartment one night when I got home. It was a few months after you'd moved. I almost  _ died _ . At first from fear, and then because he beat me so bad."

I swallow so hard that it hurts my throat. "How did he… beat you?"

"He-uhm… he twisted my arm behind my back until it broke in two places… my right arm. He slammed my head against the wall until I passed out…" Her voice fades.

"So… uhm… how many new ways can you bend your arm now?"

She stares at me for a moment, and then she bursts out laughing. "Lisa Reisert! I can't  _ believe _ you just said that!"

"You asked for non-pity. Well… I'm working on it."

She snorts and takes another large gulp. "One more." She waves for the waiter and holds up two fingers in the air, then points at our half empty glasses. "Want me to go on?"

"I was kinda hoping there wasn't any more."

Cynthia grimaces. "When I woke up, he was still there. He'd torn through my place, turned everything upside down, looking for any signs of you I figure. I kept telling him that I didn't  _ know _ where you were, but he called me all kinds of ugly things and slapped me around some more. And he was cruel… like sadistically cruel… he made me believe I had chances to get away, he went into another room a couple of times, turned his back on me and all. And every time, as I had  _ just _ gotten to the door, or had started to dial 911… he came back. I have memory loss for parts of it… I had a bad concussion and actually some kind of bruising on the surface of my brain they tell me."

I must have grimaced because Cynthia points at me at the same time as our new drinks arrive. "No pity, remember! And, well, that's about it, really."

I nod as I drink up the old one and hand the empty glass to the waiter. "No pity. But Cynthia… I have a bomb to drop… and I don't know how to even start."

"Just don't tell me you're  _ married _ to the creep!"

"Jeez, Cyn! No!"

"Woo! I'm relieved. Just start, girl. He raped you."

"This last winter I spent three days locked up in a cabin in Canada during a raging snowstorm. With  _ him _ ."

She stares at me, then she starts laughing. "Sure. And I'll be marrying Santa Claus next spring. Don't think you can worm your way out of this by being funny."

"I wasn't. You're getting _ married _ ?"

She looks like the cat who ate the cream.

"Congrats! To the both of you!"

"Thanks, hon!" Then she is quiet, regarding me. "I think you need to explain yourself, then," she finally says.

I bite my lip. "Mm. I think… no I  _ know _ , that he came to kill me initially, both that morning, at my father's, and then the second time, in my apartment. But there was always some kind of… energy between us. I don't know  _ how _ to explain it, really… I know it sounds so weird, and it's so hard to try to put words to. I mean he was a complete stranger to me, but he obviously knew  _ way _ too much about me, and somehow I triggered all the wrong circuits in him, both back on the plane, and when he came for me…"

"If you ask me I'd say he's  _ easily _ triggered!"

I bend my head. "Yeah," I whisper. "He probably decided death wasn't punishment enough for me."

"Did he know? About what you'd been through before?"

"Yeah…"

"Oh, God! I can't  _ believe _ it!"

"Cyn!"

"Sorry. Go on."

"There's not much more to say… he forced himself on me. I fought the  _ whole _ time, I was more angry than scared… but he's stronger… He almost killed me."

"Yeah… Hey! We could start a club."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm not a fraction as affected by the drinks as she clearly is.

"Yeah, us, the ones that got away," she explains.

I wince and scrunch up my face, deciding to leave that comment to itself.  _ That'd be a very, very small club, considering how few people he seemed to leave alive.  _ Dangerously close to losing myself in memories I have to fight to focus on Cynthia again. I can't believe how she can still keep her cheery, almost naïve ways after all she's been through. Maybe she has something to teach me. 

"Anyway, afterwards, he said he was sorry."

"What a piece of  _ shit _ !"

"And I wished I could have forgiven him." I almost whisper the last words, glancing around me quickly to see that no one is sitting so close that they can hear us.

" _ Huh _ . Like beaten wife syndrome… but you shouldn't feel that way about a  _ stranger _ . That's kinda weird."

"But that's the thing. He didn't  _ feel _ like a stranger. It's so strange, but it feels like I know him."  _ Knew. _

"He's very manipulative, Leese. Don't put this on yourself."

"You're probably right."

"So… how was he?"

I frown. "Excuse me?"

She winks at me, her huge hazel eyes flashing with mischief. "You  _ know _ … Even  _ I  _ wasn't immune to how the bastard looks. It's almost  _ unreal _ ."

My mouth falls open. "You're-" I choke on what I was about to say and she grins. "I'm kidding! You begged me to show you no pity. I'm trying my freakin' hardest.  _ Jeez _ , Leese!"

And what scares me the most isn't that she would think that a man that beat her half to death was even remotely attractive, but that I actually found it plausible for a brief moment. I've begged her to be harsh, and to stay cool, no matter what I say, because I can't tell her all this if she'd cry and turn soft; but myself, I'm rolling in self-pity and self-disgust right now because… I'm a freak. And I can't let anyone know.

I grin. "I knew that."

She claps her hands, then wolfs down a large gulp of orange fluid. "So. You're killing me, Leese. Tell me about your 'bomb'! That you met him again? In Canada? Is  _ that _ it? You know-"She leans forward and takes my hand, grinning. "I really would've thought that admit to having your rapist's kid would've been quite a 'bomb'."

I lean away slightly, suddenly aching. "That's not how I think of her."

Cynthia's smile fades. "Leese. I'm  _ so _ sorry! Of course you don't. And Cece's the most beautiful, adorable child I've ever seen. I'm a bit drunk. Are we okay?" Her gaze seeks mine and for a moment I don't know. That really hurt. I've never thought of her that way. She came to me as a blessing, and maybe her existence has even saved me, saved me from Jackson's wrath… and myself from going under. I will never know. All I know is that I love her more than life itself… and that her father obviously loved her more than his own life.

"God, I'm so  _ sorry _ , Leese! I didn't mean to make you cry! Just tell me I'm a complete bitch and that this was a mistake and we'll be out of here in no time."

_ I'm crying? _ I touch my wet cheeks and then I look up at her. "It's okay. I know you don't think that. But I can't have others thinking of her - or me - like that. We'd be judged beforehand. I trust you, Cyn…"

She nods, eager to please. "Of course."

"We ran away, he was never far behind…" I begin retelling the long and painful story of how he got closer and closer and how I finally had to escape. How I ended up in rural Canada and how we holed up there until he suddenly showed up again.

"But… how the hell did he  _ find _ you?"

"As far as I can figure it, it was a coincidence. Weird."

I leave out the worst parts. I can't tell how he killed Ray. I just can't.

"Weren't you  _ afraid _ ?"

"More than I've ever been in my entire life. More than when he… raped me." I'm still finding it so hard to spell out. "I tried to kill him," I add, quickly, to rectify my failing voice.

"Of course you did! How the hell did you  _ survive _ ?"

It's so unreal to sit here, in the steaming hot Miami night, with a girlfriend, cocktails, with Latin music and friendly faces around us, and recall three stormy days and nights in Canada. "Maybe that's the real bomb…" I inhale deeply and finally say it out loud. "He didn't come to kill me. He never hurt us. In fact… he saved Cece's life."

' _ May 1, 2008 _

_ Cynthia started crying when I told her that Jackson is dead. I don't know how to interpret that in any other way than that it was from relief. Is that how I should feel as well? _

_ Relief.' _

I taste the word. I try to taste the feeling, but it's not there. I can't find it.

I stand outside the Lux and just breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I can't believe it. They offered me a job. Not my old job, this one has fewer responsibilities, but still a managerial position. Why? After all this time and all that happened. Mr. Edwards was so nice to me, told me how they had missed my happy smile and ever-professional attitude. I had a creeping suspicion during the whole lunch-turning-job interview that the old man had no clue as to who I am. But the job does sound nice. Fun even. I don't know if I'll accept it, though, it'll take me away from Cece.

A small voice at the back of my mind keeps repeating that she needs to start seeing other kids; that I have hidden her from the world for too long. She'll be two years old soon and she is very social, very easy to get along with, and very curious about other people.

She has stopped talking about 'Jack'.

The sky is cloudy, orange-tinged, and the air is humid. There's talk of a tropical storm rolling in tonight. They come early this year, it's still spring. I can't help but smile, thinking about how I'll sit with a glass of white wine and rest my eyes on the fury of the ocean as the waves whip the beach, and how I'll be hoping that the windows will keep up their promise.

Twisting the tendrils of hair at my neck, flipping them between my index and middle fingers, I turn the stroller north and start walking along the narrow sidewalk, avoiding the largest cracks in the concrete. My hair is still short, but it has a ragged style to it that I like very much, a styled style. I wonder what he would have thought of it.

And I really don't know why I just wondered that.

I will accept the offer. I need it. Not for the money. But I need it for my sanity, for my mind. I need to feel like I'm doing something. I can't just… drift. I'm going to accept it. I'll call the hotel tomorrow.

Cece sleeps like a log, her dark hair curled against her forehead in the moist heat, and I walk on light feet until I reach the shore where I struggle against the wind for a while before I hail a taxi that takes us home.


	2. God's Little Creatures

She doesn't know I'm watching her.

This time around she really doesn't know I'm watching her, because she doesn't flinch when strangers pass too close, and she doesn't glance over her shoulder time and time again. If she did know that I'm here, though, she'd know she has nothing to be afraid of.

I really do hope that she'd know that.

They are beautiful together. Cecilia has grown since I last saw her. She's a self-conscious little lady, trotting next to her mother, cute, her dark hair tied into ponytails, bouncing as she runs in circles, jumps, runs back and forth. Just as active as ever. I smile when I see her. I can still recall the feeling of the little body in my arms, fever-hot, still, a heart thumping rapidly. An involuntary shudder passes through me, as always, when I remember how she slid and disappeared over that edge.

I almost stretch out my hand. I want to touch them.

Them.

Cecilia.

Lisa.

Her hair has grown, and I do believe she's actually paid for a haircut because she doesn't look like she ran over herself with the lawnmower any more. They look happy, relaxed, but I detect a briefly passing haunted look on Lisa's features from time to time, like an underlying sadness. I can't imagine why. Everything has turned out for the best for her. As far as she knows I'm dead, she has no need to look over her shoulder any more. And still… she kind of does.

I should keep away. But I already know I won't.

I can't.

 

**Ida McGonaghan - the lost son**

They knocked on her door late at night. Ida barely heard it through the creaking of the trees in the wind. The worst of the storm had passed but the electricity was still out. It didn't bother her much, it happened several times every winter. The damn power companies never learned to deliver. Each to her own. She had always managed on her own, even since Harry left them when Ray was still little. A fire crackled peacefully in the fireplace and a thick smell of smoke lay heavy throughout the house. She was in her nightgown and had already braided her long gray hair for the night and considered for a moment not opening.

"Mrs. McGonaghan." It was Stephan Anderson and the minion Mike Waslowski. Mike had never done a decent day's work in his life. She didn't care to hide the sneer on her lips. Stephan spoke. There had always been something semi-likeable about that boy. "We're very sorry. We have found Ray."

She frowned as she looked from one pale face to the other. Frost rimmed moustaches and eyebrows made them look older. The cold night air made their breaths visible, like ghosts, puffing from fleshy mouths. Filthy mouths with ugly words. Useless words. Their eyes were dark and hollow.

"Yes?" She didn't understand. Ray was here, with her.

"He… ahm… he's dead. We're so very sorry. We have his body down at the motel until the coroner can get here. Ehm… do you want us to take you there? Is there something we can do for you?"

Dead? He wasn't dead, she had just given him a bowl of soup, washed his face and hands and tucked him in for the night. Idiots. They' were all idiots. Silly people. And if he had in fact died since she last saw him, she very much doubted that they knew that any more than she did.

"What would be the point?" she asked. What would be the point of leaving the warmth in her house to go and look at some stranger they got mixed up with Ray?

The shorter man, Mike the goblin, stood with furrowed bushy brows and gaped at her. She shrugged slightly, not everyone had their wits about them. They misinterpreted her shrug as a shiver and began to back away. "It's late. Maybe you're right. We- we'll be back tomorrow. In case you need… ahm, anything." It was Mike. Silly boy.

_ They are mad. Ray's not dead. _ She smiled falsely, keeping up appearances, just to get rid of them. Maybe they're even dangerous? Who can tell? Crazy people sometimes get dangerous.

"Thank you for your concern," she said slowly, making every syllable clear as crystal. "I can manage on my own. I'm good."

They took yet another step back. Humpty and Dumpty. Her smile faded as she regarded them suspiciously. Then she closed the door and bolted it carefully. Crazy people scared her.

She went to the little room at the back of the house where her son was sleeping soundly. He had thinned out, but he always did carry a little too much weight so she guessed it was for the better. She wondered how he had ended up in the cold water. She'd have to ask him when he woke. Cold and wet. Barely conscious. Shivering. Pale. He'd been so, so pale. She hadn't had the time to ask him. But it really didn't matter. He was here with her now, and she would take care of him. Like she always did. Her gaze lingered a little longer at his lean form and then she smiled. Ray had finally gotten his act together. He looked good, and he hadn't asked for those filthy animals even once. That was good. She didn't think they were alive anymore. The birds had stopped their flapping and squeaking out there in the shed about a day or so ago.

 

**Middlebro - Dark Water**

_ Cecilia whirls down the snowy slope. _

_ Faster. Faster. _

_ I throw myself after her, grabbing hold of her snowsuit as we both tumble over the edge together. _

_ I feel my fingers slipping further and further. Just as I give her the last push, praying that Lisa will be there to grab her, my other hand lets go and wordlessly, I tumble down the increasingly steep slope. The crisp air feels like death's caress against my cheeks. In one last effort to stop the fall, I grip something sharp, tearing open my palm through the gloves. When I hit the water there's no time to even scream. _

_ The cold enwraps me like icy fingers, squeezes every ounce of air out of me with its cruel embrace. _

I woke with a gasp. I'd been in water. Over and over again. Cold water in my mouth, in my lungs, over my head. Tumbling. Wet, heavy clothes.

' _ I got her.' _

I remembered having only one thought in my mind.

' _ I got her.' _

I lifted my head and immediately regretted it. A headache like nothing I had ever experienced before cut through my head. Gasping from the pain, I clutched for my forehead and began coughing. It didn't stop until I was too weak to continue. I bathed in sweat and my mouth was filled with a froth-like substance. I swallowed and felt nausea ripple through my body. Unable to hold back I heaved myself over the edge of the bed and retched.

_ What's wrong? _ Everything seemed wrong. In fact, nothing seemed right. It didn't feel like the body I knew. I cried out in pain when my chest exploded in a new set of violent coughs.

_ Pneumonia. I have pneumonia. Why does my heart hurt? I can't breathe! _

When my twitching body calmed, my mind stretched to the far corners of what I defined as 'me' and tried to feel what state I was in and how fast I could get the fuck out of bed if needed. I wiggled my toes. They were numb and hurt tremendously when I moved them. I tried to lift my knees and ended up with the worst coughing fit I'd had so far.  _ I need this shit treated! _

I could feel the sheets a little too well against my skin. What the fuck? Lifting the blanket, I glanced under it and found that I lay stark naked.  _ What in hell…? _ Exhausted, I dropped the blanket again.  _ Where am I? Why the hell am I naked? _ This was no hospital. If I'd been saved, then where were Lisa and Cecilia? Lifting my head from the pillow, I immediately broke out in a sweat all over.  _ Fucking HELL! _ I wanted nothing more than to sink back onto that softness underneath me and fall back to sleep, but the urge to control was stronger.

For a brief moment I thought I might be in a boat because the bed rocked and the walls wavered and shifted. Rubbing my eyes with arms heavy as lead, I looked around me again. It didn't look like a boat. Not at all. Lace curtains covered a not-too-clean window and behind a veil of hurling snow I could see dark naked trees stretching towards an invisible sky.

_ Peachy! Snow. _

There was one entrance, meaning one exit, except for the window.

Check.

An ugly painting of a dark landscape adorned one of the walls and the wall behind me was covered in posters of boy bands with names I couldn't relate to even if someone would've held a gun to my head. Kids in their mere teens, with make up on, trying to look seductive in front of the camera.

My cheeks heated from the effort and trembling, I had to give up. I felt my mind drift as soon as my head hit the pillow, and even though everything inside me screamed 'danger' there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

 

**Ida McGonaghan - Ungrateful**

Ida hummed to herself while she was preparing the meal. Chicken soup treated any illness. Everybody knew that. She thought she had heard her boy swear and fuss around in there but she let him be. She'd reprimand him for the language later. Right now she was busy and he would have to wait his turn.

 

**Middlebro - White Witch of the North**

The door creaked open with a long complaining whine that jerked me awake. My heart thumped wildly in my chest. Expecting the worst: enemies I'd made throughout my career - they were so many I could fertilize a state the size of Texas with them - CIA, FBI, I didn't know the fuck what, I almost laughed out loud when a crooked old hag entered. With her long white hair, her bent back and large nose she looked like a fairy tale witch. Hansel and Gretel's gingerbread witch. But I still couldn't be too sure. She could be a cover, employed to lull me into feeling safe.

The effort of waking and turning my head made me lose myself in endless coughing and when I finally came to, she was sitting at the edge of my bed and patting my forehead with a wet lukewarm cloth. Her features wavered and rippled, making her look even uglier. One of her eyes started to drop and then it snapped back into place. I blinked. She seemed both too close and eerily distant at the same time.

"There now, there now, my baby. Mommy's gonna take care of you."

' _ Mommy?' What the fuck? _ My mind was dazed from the fever, but I still assessed the situation the best that I could. Either she was hired to feed me… OR it was just her… If her face would only stop moving around.

_ Where's Lisa and Cecilia? _ -was what I wanted to say. "Why naked? Where… clothes?" -was the first thing that wheezed past my dry lips.  _ What? Are you suddenly a prude, Jack? _ But it wasn't unimportant. Without clothes I wouldn't get far. My clothes, or any.

Her face scrunched up into something impossible to interpret and for a moment I thought her nose had disappeared. "Ya were wet and cold. I had to take them."

"Where others?" I croaked and fought the tearing cough that wanted to rip me in two. The room was spinning faster and faster and her cheeks began to switch place with her forehead. The need to squeeze my eyes shut grew with every second.

She smiled and stroked my cheek with a wrinkled, calloused hand covered in unidentifiable brown specks. I flinched. Even the slight touch felt as if she had slapped me. "What others? Baby, ya're being delusional. But it's the temperature… as soon as we get that in check…"

_ Alone. _ I filed that information away for now. "Need doctor," I wheezed.

A rattling came out of her chest and at first I thought she was going to throw up over me, then I realized it was a laugh. I winced at the sound that harassed my ears as if someone had thrown me inside a metal box and kept beating at its sides. "There's nothing a little chicken soup can't take care of. Now here-" She pulled a little table closer and held up a spoon filled with an acrid smelling content. "Here's your medicine."

_ Alone and crazy. Possibly trying to kill me, intentionally or not.  _ Fucking hell. At least I had somehow gotten out of that river. Now I just had to figure out how to get past this Picasso witch. As I opened my mouth and let the salty slimy content slide down my throat, I wondered what had happened to Lisa and Cecilia. I'd ask the hag when I got the chance. When my lungs cooperated to something more than barely breathing.

The sheets smelled old and dusty, my body reeked. I had moments of clarity in between the attacks of shivering, shuddering cold and melting away in floods of sweat, soaking every piece of fabric that surrounded me. I panicked when I didn't feel my legs and wiggled my toes and flexed my feet until I got some circulation back into them. It was all I had. I had to control my body, I had to feel every inch of it or I was doomed in this hell hole. I couldn't get out of bed, not even to go to the toilet. I was still too weak, too dizzy. I tried once and fell so hard that I smashed my lips onto the cabinet that's next to the bed.

The days and nights melted into one another. I didn't know if I'd been there for hours, days, or even weeks. I wasn't sure I was going to survive. In fact, in between the dazed hours, I was pretty fucking sure that I wasn't going to make it.

I woke with a scream more than once, seeing Cecilia tumble over the edge, fumbling for her and finally realizing I was gripping the sheets so hard that my knuckles had whitened.

Something was touching me. I groaned and thought of Lisa. I still didn't have any clothes, and considering the amount of sweat that I had produced it might've been better that way anyway. Something was still touching me. Or someone. I opened my eyes.

"What the fuck?"  _ Get away from my COCK! _

I raised my head, and then sat straight up and shoved the crazy-assed bitch off me. Her long hair hung loose and she held a wet cloth in her hands. The exertion made me fall back onto the bed and pant heavily, but I was still a little impressed with myself. That was more movement than I had managed in a long time. Maybe I was on the right path after all? And her fucking face had definitely stopped moving around. That  _ had _ to be a good sign.

She turned to me and straightened as much as her hunched form allowed. "Oh, Ray. I've done this lots and ya've never complained. Ya need to be cleaned is all."

_Ray?_ _RAY?_ The fatty that I had shortened significantly back at Lisa's place. As all the little hairs on my body stood erect in horror, several things hit home at once. Poor, poor fucking bastard! No wonder he was such a freak. This had to be his MOM. I suddenly knew where I was and who the fuck she thought I was. I wasn't worse off than that I appreciated the irony of it all. I pulled the sheet to cover me and snarled at her. "Don't ever fucking do that again!"

She pointed a stained finger at me, stabbing it through the air. "Language! I'm gonna have to punish ya, Ray. Ya're strong enough now to take it."

"Punish?" I croaked. The door slammed shut behind her and the key twisted with a very final sound. I sneered at the door. Who the fuck needed it when I had a window? A little voice at the back of my mind reminded me that I was weak like a kitten. And that I didn't have any clothes. And that it was winter. For the thousandth time, I remembered how much I had learned to hate the cold and the snow. Some good old life-giving, God-sent rage surged through me. I would rearrange that fucking face of hers permanently.

_ You'll see about punish, lady! _

 

**Miami - Proud**

She's on her way to the Lux Atlantic again. It's the third time since I started watching them. This time is different, though. She has left Cecilia at a small daycare. Seven kids. Different ages. I checked the staff. Just a couple of speeding tickets. No pedophiles. Had there been one, I'd have killed him. Or her.

Lisa's bought a whole new wardrobe. Several business suits, conventional, dark blue, jacket and skirt, impeccably white blouses. She's going back to work.

I'm conflicted.

Does she need the money? She's bought a very expensive apartment, but maybe that was the last of her savings? I want to tell her that I can take care of them, that she doesn't have to work. She doesn't have to leave our daughter in the hands of strangers.

Her eyes were sad when she jumped in the newly bought car after leaving Cecilia, but when she finished her shift that afternoon she looked tired but had a new posture. Proud. Positive.

Okay. Probably not for the money, then. But because she needs it.

 

**Middlebro - Ditching Picasso**

I don't know how long the witch left me without food and fresh water. I think it was dark outside twice, so maybe two days. But I could have missed something. I drank from the bowl of soapy water she had left on the bedside table. I vomited, peed, and shit in the bucket that had been my spitting and vomiting partner since I first woke.

And I planned my revenge.

The lack of food wasn't helping me, but I started tensing my thighs, wiggling my toes, lifting my legs… once, twice. Sleep. Three times. Sleep. I lifted myself on my elbows and fell back again. I lifted myself again, and then back. Finally I sat, swaying, bile rising in my throat. My head hurt and as I threaded my fingers through my tousled, coarse hair, I felt a bump the size of half an egg. Apart from a severe pneumonia, I had to have a concussion.

_ Bitch! _

I have no idea where she found me or how she got me to her house, but if she was going for the medieval treatment, well… two can play that game. By the time I heard a key in the lock, I was standing up. And I was ready for her.

She was tougher than I thought she would be. Lasted longer. I slammed the rusty old steel bucket onto her head. Again and again. Shit, piss, and vomit sprayed across the room. And she kept screaming. High-pitched. Wordlessly. When she was finally still, and blissfully quiet, I fell to my knees, my hands slick with her blood, and emptied my stomach right next to her feet. She had lost one of her slippers in the struggle and, for some reason, I kept staring at the toe that peeked out of a ragged hole in her sock.

My chin trembled from the cold when I woke and I bit my teeth together hard to prevent them from clattering helplessly. I had to disentangle myself from a cramped fetal position that I must have held for a while judging from the soreness of my muscles. The toe was still staring back at me. It had a speck of dried blood on it. At least she was quiet, and I didn't have to hear that god-awful thick accent. Staggering to my feet, I had to clutch the doorframe as I exited the room. My head spun badly, but I just had to get out of there. I needed to find some food, clothes, and a bathroom. Not necessarily in that order.

An unexpected twinge of guilt hit me as I found a stash of clothes. Ray-sized men's clothes. Poor fucking bastard. I had spent a couple of weeks with the bitch, he had spent his entire life in her clutches. I should've met her first and set him free.

Finding a semi-clean bathroom, I turned on the shower. The water was in turns scalding hot and freezing cold, and all too soon there was only the cold left. I sat at the bottom of a bathtub that had seen its best days a couple of decades earlier, and I lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed until my teeth chattered and my lips had turned blue.

When I had dressed in the least ill-fitting clothes I could find, I went in search of the kitchen. And there was food. Plenty of it. There had to have been more people in the family at some point, and it seemed as if she was still cooking for at least four. As I stuffed my face with ham, roast beef, mashed potatoes, and whatnot, wolfing it down with beer, I mused over other people's lives. They all seemed so meaningless, so wasted. What did it matter if they lived or if they died? I swallowed a too-large chunk of something which made my eyes water from the pain when I suddenly saw Lisa and Cecilia before my eyes. I hadn't thought of them in a long time. Survival always comes first. A wave of dizziness rolled over me. They mattered. There were people out there who were good, and true, and whose lives weren't meaningless.

I was suddenly so tired. Maybe it was the food and the warmth, or maybe it was still my injuries, but I longed desperately to lay my head down and to close my eyes for a few moments.

When I woke it was dark and I had no idea where I was until I recognized the smelly old couch and the dusty blanket. I lay silent and listened to the house. Except for the sound of mice rattling softly in the walls, everything was quiet. Good.

As I looked for boots and whatever outdoor clothes I could find I started wondering if people like these didn't own a shotgun. They ought to. This was Canada, true, but rural Canada… of course there had to be one somewhere. Turned out I didn't have to look for too long. In a cupboard in the kitchen I found what I was looking for along with cartridges and a hunter's knife with a jagged edge and a wooden handle.

I ate a little again and then, exhausted beyond belief, I stumbled back to the couch again and fell into a coma-like sleep for the rest of the night. When the first rays of sun climbed over the tree tops and hit my nose I was thankful to be pulled out of the fragmented nightmares that had haunted me. The snow. The cold water. The old hag. Lisa and Cecilia.

The sun warmed the air and there were a constant dripping from the roof and from the trees. Was it already spring? I realized I had no idea what date it was and for how long I'd been incapacitated. I didn't see a car and my mouth went dry as a feeling of unease crept over me. What if Ray's blocked pick-up back down the road from Lisa's cabin had been their only vehicle? With a feeling of impending doom I walked across the yard and steered my steps toward a barn-like building with chapped yellow paint and a partially caved-in roof. Without any hope I pulled open one half of the large black doors. Oh baby! The sun fell in from behind me and reflected in the lovingly polished surface of an old blue Buick.

With my heart in my throat I popped the hood. Would it all just be a pretty shell, or would there be a beautiful humming mechanical heart?

The disappointment tasted bitter like gall in my mouth. It had only bits and pieces of an engine. I slammed the hood down with such force that some boxes further back in the barn tipped over and fell with an almost deafening sound in the otherwise silent world. When I backed up a step and glanced at the space that had appeared behind the boxes, I saw a piece of a large rubbery-black, ring-shaped object. I squinted in the dusky room and started towards the new finding. A stench had started to assault my nostrils and it increased the deeper I moved into the unknown recesses of the building. Finally, I had to cover my nose and breathe through my mouth as I had the second vision today. An old tractor was standing there, halfway covered in debris, unused for decades from the look of it, rusty, sad looking, and patiently awaiting me.

My heart almost stopped. I was going to get out of this hellhole. This old gem was going to take me back to my own world and this would all fade into a vague memory.

Or maybe not all of it.

I shoved my right foot against something metallic that clanked with a hollow sound and I heard liquid moving around inside it. Twisting the lid with trembling hands, the sharp sweet wonderful smell of gasoline hit my nose. Bingo. There had to be at least a couple of gallons in there. It could be enough. It should be enough.

It fucking had to.

After locating the tank and emptying the fuel into it, I just had to see what the stench was about. I usually steer clear of being curious. It can be dangerous. I was pretty sure I was completely and utterly alone here, though, and I just had to know. Had there been more unlucky men like me through the years? Maybe she had been a serial killer? Maybe she had the rest of the family stowed away in there, mummified, dead since decades? Images worthy of Hitchcock's sickest fantasies filled my mind when I pulled down the handle. As soon as I opened the door the stench became unbearable and a cloud of white feathers whirled up in the narrow space. I had been right about the corpses. But they weren't human. Birds. Doves to be precise. Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty. What the fuck had been wrong with these people?

I have a pretty thick skin, in fact I pride myself on not being fazed by anything, but this place was seriously starting to get to me.

More energetically than in a long time I jumped up into the tractor, dropped the shotgun on the floor next to the seat, twisted the ignition key, and with a couple of nervous coughs, it sputtered to life. I gave out a roar of pure lust for life as I almost slammed the gas pedal through the floor and shot right through the side of the barn, wood splinters raining around my head. I was finally on my way.

One of the large rear tires was half deflated and she coughed and spit and had me bouncing around, almost throwing me out of the seat at times, but we moved forward. I forgave her for her crankiness. Fully and completely. I would have been cranky too, being holed up in there for such a long time. When we came clear of the tree line, I sighed with relief. With my head down I stared right in front of me, hiding my face under the cap, and drove straight past Ray's Groceries. A big hand-written sign said 'closed'. Just that. I saw him in front of me, as he had looked when I first set foot in his store, smiling hopefully, hoping for something to happen, for someone to free him from his boredom.

Pulling the cap further down, I continued straight ahead.

At the gas station, I hotwired one of the cars outside the garage and left Middlebro as quietly as I once entered; briefly wondering by how many percent I had decreased its population. 

I didn't look back once.

 

**Miami - Born Again**

When I arrive in Miami, they aren't difficult to track. She doesn't hide. People's search, Lisa Reisert. Seaview Ave. 1147. Done. I ache to see them, but I take my time. I have some business to take care of, some arrangements to make.

I buy a house. I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do with a house. But it has a lawn. The pool is fenced in, and the security system only need a few modifications.

It's empty. I use one room, the kitchen, and one bathroom. When I sit on the patio at night, I can barely hear the traffic, and I smell the salty sea.

Weak as a newborn baby, or as I figure them to be, I have to start from the beginning. Military exercises. Simple. Legs. Back. Chest. Arms. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And when I take breaks, I take rides. The Lux. The daycare. Seaview Avenue.

I'm so fucking weak. The training is too difficult and I can't seem to get enough air, enough strength. I don't recognize my own body and it scares me. Using one of my aliases, I go see a doctor. It's not fun. I wonder what he'd look like without his head. He hums and listens, and huffs and creases his forehead. After an X-ray, I find myself in his office later the same day and he looks even more concerned and asks me what I've been through. I'm beginning to worry that I have cancer and my mouth is dry as I give him something about Iraq and an ill-treated pneumonia.

The earth is trembling underneath me as I'm back out on the street. Obviously my lungs look like shit and I'll never regain my old physique. More like half of it. If I work hard. I sway. Hunting days are definitely over. I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life. I only know one thing - how to hurt people. 

I refuse to budge and go back to my regime. Legs. Back. Chest. Arms. Repeat.

Finally, I realize I'm stalling. I'm stalking again. Stalking and stalling. Pathetically. Who the hell called me pathetic once? I am strong enough now. And if the fucking doc's right, it won't get much better than this. I hope she won't try to kill me when she sees me because then she might very well succeed. I hesitate for a moment. Would she?

_ No, she wouldn't... _

It's Friday evening and by now they will have eaten and should be sitting in front of the children's shows on TV. As far as I can judge she doesn't have any plans.

It's time.

I listen for a moment. There's music coming from inside the door. I recognize the song immediately. I always did like Creedence.

'… _ bad moon arising. I see trouble on the way.' _

_ Right. _

I can't help but grin at the accidental meeting between my knuckles on her door and John Fogerty's foreboding words.

I hope I'm not trouble. I don't think I am. I hope she'll welcome me. In fact, I'm terrified she might not. I hesitate a moment longer. This could change my life forever. It can go either way. She can throw me out, and then there'll be only darkness. Or she can welcome me into her light, into her bright apartment, where all the life, and everything I've ever cared about exists.

I almost touch the door, and then I pull back.

'… _ come around tonight. Well, it's bound to take your life' _

Or, I could destroy her life all over again; rip away the safety she has experienced since she returned to Miami with my mere reappearance. I think of leaving her alone. I immediately reject it. I need to know that she has forgiven me. I need to know that what I once did has been undone.

' _ There's a bad moon on the rise.' _

Then I knock.


	3. For I Have Sinned

Cece is watching the Disney Channel, some cartoon that I think is just a little too violent for her age. The hollow sounds of laughter and characters beating each other to a pulp are increasing and I realize she must have found the volume control again. The noise from the TV mixes painfully with the music I have on in the living room. I am just about to enter her room to switch to another channel when I hear the knocking on the door. Not the doorbell, nothing that should be even remotely startling, but just a couple of soft knocks.

I…

I stand indecisively in the hallway, staring at the inside of my front door, then at Cece's open door, then I take a few quick steps inside her room and lower the volume slightly. My mind is already completely preoccupied with the stranger outside the door, Cece's choice of children's show and my concerns about it already forgotten.

It's just…

I don't know who it can be. A twinge of fear makes my heart tremble for a moment and then I get angry.  _ There's no one! Nothing! Behave normal for once! _ It's a neighbor. Or Cynthia. It's a considerate person who knows it should be about bedtime for Cece. I drop the remote on Cecilia's bed and walk with determined steps to the hallway and unlock and open the door. At the same time the CD has come to its end and the music stops from inside my living room.

I know the moment I see even a part of the dark suit. My limbs go slack with fear and I try to slam the door shut. It's an instinct. It's not reasonable - it doesn't have to be. It's not even rational that he is here. Maybe it's a hallucination? His foot sneaks into the gap and stops the motion.

It isn't.

"Lisa," he rasps. "Don't… shut me out." I only hear his voice.  _ His _ voice. Undoubtedly. And see the tip of an impeccably polished shoe.

He pushes the door open enough that we can see each other. I have tunnel vision and all I see is his eyes while I hear the still too loud, clanking sounds from the silly children's show. His voice is desolate and his eyes are so dark that I can't understand where he's hidden all the blue.

I see him throwing himself, without concern for his own safety, to save Cecilia. Would he do that and then come to kill us? Is he angry because we continued without him? My mouth is so dry. I try licking my lips, but I can barely separate them from each other.  _ You died! _

"Please," he says, holding a hand on his side of the knob, his foot still preventing me from shutting the door. It's something in his voice. He begs. He doesn't command me, or demand that I do something. He begs me. I battle with myself a moment longer and then I let go and take a trembling step back. The hallway is dark and the only light enters from the narrow ray that shines between the frame and the door. Then the ray gets wider as he slowly opens the door and enters. He's my whole world in that moment. I don't hear anything else, see anything else. Him and me, that's all there is.

I think I'm going to faint. Or throw up. But I do nothing.

I don't know what makes me believe in him. I just let it happen.

When he shuts the door behind him, we're thrown into darkness, only the flickering bluish light from the TV in the next room allows us to see anything at all. And the sounds from Cecilia's room return.

"I thought you were dead," I finally whisper.

He is quiet for a moment. "Did you really think that?" he then whispers back.

_ Did I? _

No. Not really, really. He's like a force of nature. Like energy. He never truly ceases to exist, he just shifts shape and returns as a brightly burning flame when the time is right.

I shake my head and I see his slow nod. We're like accomplices, partners in the sham. I could have told the policeman from Sprague, Officer Petit, that it was very likely that Jackson would turn up again. That he always does. But I didn't. The moment he saved my child - our child - was the same moment he also came to deserve my protection, what little I could give. I want to lay my arms around him at that moment. I want to lean my head against his chest and hear if there's really a beating heart in there. I am so incredibly relieved that he is alive that I actually want to touch him to feel if he's real. The urge surprises me and I clench my hands, my arms glued to the sides of my body.  _ No.  _ Instead I get angry. Angry at myself for even thinking of wanting to touch this rapist, this  _ murderer _ . Angry for all the agony he's put me through these last months when I thought he was dead. Angry at him for being such an idiot. Period.  _ Idiot! _

I don't know if it's him that I mean. Or if it's me.

I open my mouth to speak, to reject him again and to let that anger well up, when his gaze shifts and he's looking behind me. I spin on my heels and see that Cecilia, true to her nature, has dropped the less exciting thing for the more exciting. I glance back at Jackson, finding him crouching, transfixed by my - no, our - daughter.

"Hey," he whispers.

Cecilia gazes at me for a moment, then she walks straight up to Jackson and takes his hand. "I am Cecilia," she says, loud and clear, exaggerating every syllable, pronouncing them perfectly.

I stay out of their way the next hour, letting Cece show the interesting stranger her room, her drawings, the contents of her wardrobe and every little bit and piece of her world. She chatters vividly, as cheerful as always, and I hear Jackson's soft murmuring answers.

Walking back and forth in front of the panoramic window, I'm beginning to wonder how long it will take before I've made an indentation in the wooden floor. I'm squeezing a cold cup of tea between my palms, and I haven't taken a sip in probably the last half hour. Every nerve ending I've got is directed towards his presence. I feel him more than hear, and I'm exhausted from the constant fear that I'll suddenly hear the front door slam shut and that I'll find them gone. When he comes up to me from behind, I turn deliberately slowly. I don't want him to know how on my toes I really am.

"She's yawning."

I stare at him. He's thinner than I remember him, his hair has lost some of its luster, and he seems older, even though only a few months have passed. I still can't believe what I'm seeing.

"I think she's tired, I figured you wanted to do the bedtime thing."

I force myself to snap out of my self-induced trance and nod. "Yeah. Ehm… where'll you be?"

He points at the kitchen table. "Here… if it's all right?"

_ If it's all right? _ God. I don't know if I can answer that. I need more time. I nod numbly. "Okay." Then I turn. His gaze makes my back tingle and burn all the way until I've turned the corner where I fumblingly support myself on the doorframe to my daughter's room, leaning my forehead against the cool wood.  _ Oh. My. God.  _ My life is once again turned, I'm losing my footing and I don't know how much more I can take.

When I read to her, I have such flashbacks from when I put her to bed that first night, with him in the cabin, that I can barely breathe. It hits me hard. How afraid I was. How angry, disgusted, and filled with hate. I try to feel her soft, warm skin against mine as I help her into her pajamas. I try to be here and only here, to cherish the moment, because God only knows what awaits us in this next round in our lives. But I fail. I'm not here. I'm far away as I put her to bed. I'm back at the cabin. I'm listening for any sounds from outside her room, trying to keep track of his movements in my apartment. I'm anywhere but with my daughter.

Our daughter.

I taste the words and realize that I can't hide from them. He has earned the right to be with her, to get to know her. If that's what he wants.  _ What if he wants more than that?  _ The voice in the back of my mind is small, but persistent. I shut it out. Am I afraid?  _ Yes. Of course. _ Will he hurt us?  _ No. _ No, I don't think so.  _ At least not intentionally. _

But how can I be sure? I think of Ray. Of Cynthia. Then I try not to think about it.

She's been asleep for awhile and I've been hugging her little body for comfort for much longer than she needed, but not for as long as I need. My brain feels like it's melting from all the swirling thoughts and images and I'm exhausted before we've even talked.

He stands in front of an open window and stares out into the dark. I study his pale reflection in the window. As if I could look at him without being looked at myself. The sounds from the waves hitting the beach roll in, deceptively soothing, and the breeze ruffles his dark tresses. I inhale when he turns to me. I can't believe that I still find him so beautiful to look at in spite of everything he's done to me.

"How'd you find us?" I ask.

"You weren't hiding."

"Hm." It's true. We didn't. Looking at it now, I don't know why.  _ You wanted him to be able to find… shut up! _

He shifts stance and pulls his fingers through his hair. It's shorter than when I last saw him. "Thank you."

I have to tear my eyes off him. He lives?  _ You're alive? _ "For what?" I ask as I busy myself with some plates, putting them in the dishwasher.

He spreads his arms. "For allowing me to spend time with her. Honestly, there are no words-"

"Honestly?" I spit, pointing a plate at him. "What do you know about honesty? You! I just can't get over how you've deceived me from the first time I ever saw you. And even before we met. How everything has been a lie, your whole appearance, what you told me… everything. And then I'm not even mentioning… the other things you've done." It's been pent-up for a long time, the anger, the disappointment, and I just explode. My eyes fill with tears and I have to look away, unable to meet his piercing gaze. "What do you want from me?" I hiss. I slam down the last of the plates and walk over to the table indecisively. I don't know if I should sit, or remain standing, or run.

"It hasn't all been a lie-"

"Bullshit!"

"No." He shakes his head. "Fuckin' hell no. Not everything was a lie, Leese."

I grimace and sit. He sets himself opposite me at the table. I can't even believe there's anything to discuss. "You played pretend right from start, Jackson. You pretended we didn't know each other-"

"We didn't-" he said in an unsure voice that went quiet as I unleashed a new string of frustration on him. 

"Shut up!" I hiss.  I jerk back as his hand shoots out and grips around my forearm. His touch is electric. I can't believe how he can touch me like that. I wring out of his hold and massage my skin where his fingers made contact.

"No," he says. "I won't shut up. You're not wrong… but you're not right either. I've been feeling, more than I wanted to admit, something that I… shouldn't have felt… from early on. It sickened me, and it made me hate you. Even more so when you rejected me. That wasn't fake. Or part of any plan. And no matter how fucking wrong it was… it was still something real. And you have no idea how it freaks me out to say it out loud, to admit it."

I don't know what I wanted to hear. I don't think I can handle this defensive stance of his when I'm used to thinking of him as hateful and aggressive. And now it's not him hurting other people, but me. I'm so cold. I shiver in spite of the warm night and I stand abruptly to close the window. I feel his eyes on me as I move. I sit back down on the chair again and pull up my knees, hugging my legs, my jaws so tensed that I hear my teeth chatter. I can't talk, so I refrain from trying to get him to stop talking. Maybe I can just doze off?  _ Can't you just leave? _

"Y-ou h-urt me," I manage. "How is-s that-t f-feeling s-something?"

He leans forward; a look of concern replaces the earlier despair. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm so c-cold." I hug my legs even tighter and rock back and forth. And I really am. I'm frozen deep into my marrow. I can't even control my shuddering.

"I'll get you a blanket, hang on." He stands and disappears before I can even say something. I still can't move an inch as he comes back with my blanket -  _ my  _ blanket - which he has taken off  _ my _ bed. He's intruding again, taking a place in my life. And I can't move. He drapes it around my shoulders and makes sure it stays on before he goes back to his spot. "Better?"

I stare at the shined surface of the table.  _ You hurt me. Nothing can make that better. _

"Do you want to talk about it?"

My eyes dart up to meet his. He’s looking straight back at me, and at the same time I get the feeling that he's having a hard time holding my gaze, that it's his sheer willpower that makes him meet my pain.

"About what?" I ask. Even though I know.

"About… what I did to you…" He licks his lips, and his gaze flickers.

I let out half a breath. "Even you can't mention it by its correct name. Can you?"

He shakes some stray strands of hair out of his eyes and leans back, his gaze hardening, becoming more distant. "Would it make it easier if I do? Rape. That what you want to hear? I raped you. You want me to be the one saying it? Rape. Rape. Ra-"

"Shut up!"  _ Nononono! I don't! _ I slam my palms up to cover my ears. I fiddle so much that the blanket falls to the floor. And I sit there, like the monkeys, not wanting to hear, not wanting to see, not wanting to speak.

He gets up and turns to leave the room.

"How  _ could _ you?" I ask to his squared shoulders.

He stops on the spot and turns. "Why wouldn't I?"

"It… because…"

"Because we had connected. Right, Leese? Because we were something more than just kidnapper and hostage. Weren't we?"

"No…" I mumble unhappily.

"And you couldn't believe that  _ I _ , of all people, could do that to  _ you _ , of all people."

"No!"  _ Yes. _

"And you thought more of me than that, didn't you? That I was a better person. That because you felt something for me it meant that I had to be a _ good _ person deep down and not who I seemed to be."

"No!"

"Yes. And it has bugged you ever since. That  _ you _ fell for  _ me _ . That your character judgment was so flawed. That even after what you'd been through, you still fell for-"

"Shut  _ up! _ Get out!" I stand, trembling violently, shuddering almost beyond control. I need to throw up, but I won't do it when he's anywhere near. I point with my whole arm at the door. "Get out of my  _ house _ !"

"Lisa." His voice is suddenly much calmer, subdued. "I didn't mean… I honestly think we need to vent this. Somehow…"

"You're  _ defending _ what you did!" Nausea washes over me like waves of muddy water.

"That's not what I'm doing."

"That's what I hear."

"Then you're hearing it wrong."

" _ Really? _ Then  _ tell _ me how I should hear it. I'm curious." I bend down and pick up my blanket again, this time wrapping it much more tightly around my body, making it my protective shell from all evil. From him.

"I can't undo it-"

"That's true at least," I snarl.

"When I came to you… I didn't come to… I didn't intend to put you through that."

"Funny. Did you come to talk then? Huh? With a  _ knife _ !"

He cocks his head and regards me. "I should leave."

"Coward," I spit.

He blinks. "I had the impression you wanted me to."

"And I thought you wanted to talk."

"You're so hostile. This isn't easy for me either."

"Do you think I care what's easy for  _ you _ ?"

He bites his lower lip and his eyes narrow. Then he turns. "Bye."

"Don't!" I suddenly blurt out. I look at his back, as it slumps and how he sighs. He doesn't turn, but he doesn't leave either. I swallow hard before I say it. "Please, don't leave." I close my eyes to shut out the moment. Why didn't I just let him go?

He still doesn't move.

"Are you?" I ask and open my eyes.

He turns slowly and leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. "Am I  _ what _ ?"

"Are you a better person than that?" And that is the most important question I'll ever ask anyone in my life. It feels as if my whole life hangs off the answer.

He closes his eyes and presses his lips together into a thin line, his head bent before he looks up with heavily lidded eyes. "Am I? What do  _ you _ think?" he rasps.

That's not the answer I wanted. Not the answer I crave. Like always. I look away from him, out into the blackness. What do _ I _ think? My image of him is so blurred, so complex. I've seen so many sides of him that shouldn't even exist within one person. I close my eyes and swallow hard. "Would you ever… rape anyone again? Me?"

"Never." He says it softly, almost whispering.

"Kill?" I mouth.

He waits a long time before he answers and his voice is suddenly slow, measured. "That would… depend on the situation."

I raise my eyebrows. I can't imagine even one situation where I'd ever consider murder. "How?" I croak.

"If someone, or something, threatened Cecilia, or you… or me."

"Huh… and if _ I _ threatened you?"

He grimaces. "You're not making this easy."

I shrug. "I just wanna know how deep this do-good urge, and the miraculous change for the better, of yours goes. And what would turn everything around again, back to the Jackson I know and distrust."

"I have  _ no _ fucking intention of killing you, Lisa."

"Now?"

"Ever."

"But you did-" I look away. “-have that intention.”

He hesitates. "Maybe. I don't know anymore."

"Ah! You and your half-answers, the way you twist everything around… It's driving me insane."

"Welcome to the club," he says with a grimace.

I snort and wave my hand dismissively. I'm done with this for now. We're not getting anywhere. Maybe we won't ever? But if this is it, then we've still come a long way.

"Do you want me to make us some tea, Leese?"

I consider the options and realize I'm too curious. "Yes, please. Blackberry." As he turns his back to me I suddenly bombard him with the questions I've held inside me since he arrived, some of them since when he disappeared. "How did you survive, Jackson? Did you fall into the river? Where did you  _ go _ ? They were looking like mad for you, you know."

"That's a long story," he says, his back still to me as he pours water into the kettle.

"The night is long."

"I was found by a… a civilian."

"Did he survive?"

I say it lightly, as a joke, but his silence tells me everything and more than I wanted to know. Much, much more. "Oh  _ God _ !" I choke on the last syllable and, unable to hold back the tears, I curl up inside my blanket, my heart turning into ice.

Jackson spins on his heels. "Believe me on this one, Lisa. Just this one. It was no loss." His eyes have darkened several nuances and for some reason I do believe him. Just this once.

He finds two bright yellow mugs in my cupboard and then some tea bags to put in them. The sounds from the water boiling increase and then it's suddenly quiet.

"Would you leave if I asked you to?" I ask to his back as he pours water into the mugs and drops the bags of tea in them. Then he turns to me.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Would we be free to get out of here, like now…?"

"Why-"

"Please… I just… need to know, Jackson. I just… need to know."

He raises his eyebrows as he places the steaming cups in front of us on the table. "Sure you would. If you wanted to throw me out, I wouldn't stop you."

"No hostage?"

"No hostage, Leese." He licks his lips and looks away for a moment. Then he looks back at me, his face serious. “Never.”

"Good." I sip on the hot liquid. Blackberry. He didn't even have to ask where to look, he already knows his way around my kitchen.  _ God, am I that predictable? _

Jackson sets himself in front of me, the cup untouched before him. "I'll tell you what I remember. If you want to hear it. Do you?"

_ Do I?  _ I nod. "Yes, please. And Jackson… Thank you. Thank you for…"  _ Cecilia! _ "I'm so… grateful."

His face loses some of its tension and the troubled creases at the corners of his eyes disappear. "Yes." He smiles, for the first time since he came. "So am I."

 

**Blessings**

She let me in.

I sit in my car. The engine is off. My body is on fire, wobbly, out of focus. I feel like I did after the first time I killed out of calculation, for profit, the first time it had been planned ahead, when the kid was already doomed and just didn't know it yet. I stayed stone cold throughout the whole ordeal and swallowed and swallowed against the chunks of pizza that were repeatedly taking the express elevator up, down, up, down in my throat.

I stayed cold until after. Like now.

She let me in. She trusted me. I can't believe she let me in and let me spend time with Cecilia. I can't understand how she can be so generous after all I've done to her.

It's been half an hour, and there's still no sign of any cops in front of her house. I'm beginning to believe that she actually didn't call any. Miami on a Friday night is a busy, buzzing place, though, and I'll wait a little longer.

I'm almost freaking hurt. She doesn't think of me as a threat anymore? After yet another half hour, maybe even forty-five minutes, I realize there'll be no cops and twist the ignition key. The engine comes to life and I start back 'home'. I should be pleased but I'm conflicted. I was so certain that I'd have to stay away after this, that there'd be surveillance, guards, new moves and an overall ruckus. And now I have to consider the fact that I might be able to see them again. That she'd actually let me.

Why?

I'll wait a week. Then I'll go see them again. Or five days. Or three.

Maybe tomorrow.


	4. Grace

I sit outside her house and wait. For what? I don't know. I should get out of the car and go to her, but I'm stuck here with my doubts, the questioning of my motives and the shock of realizing how much I depend on these two people. I don't dare to call her like a normal person would. She'd surely say no to whatever I proposed, and where would that leave me? If she said no… Would I force her? Manipulate her? Take Cecilia and leave Lisa to regret that she turned me down? Would I beg? Plead? Lay my heart at her feet and risk that she'd stomp on it?

I can't.

I have none of those options. I can't risk the confrontation. She really has no idea that this is all there is for me. I have a feeling she finds it difficult to shut me out, though, when I keep showing up on her doorstep. So I use that. I don't think that's too bad. I don't think _ I'm _ too bad. I see her frustration, but I hope that in time she'll see that I can behave. That in time, she'll learn to trust me.

It's just that  _ 'time' _ is such a fleeting concept, such a non-thing, that I can't grasp, can't fake, can't tweak to fit my own purposes. It just is.

 

**Trust**

He's been here an hour and a half and he has just read to her and brushed her teeth. She didn't even fight him one bit. She adores him. Over the summer I've come to expect his visits, once, twice, sometimes three times a week. I've come to trust him enough and I don't think that every time I see him it will be the end of it all. It's as if I've been sedated for a very long time, just letting whatever happen, happen. Maybe I'm afraid after all? Afraid to bring out the truth about his presence in our lives.

I look at him. He's been behaving. He is good to Cece, makes her laugh. She calls him 'dad' again.

Why can't I just leave it at that? Why do I  _ have _ to push it? Why do I have to  _ know _ ?

Cecilia adores him and I'm getting increasingly skittish. I hate the unpredictability, the unplanned visits, the sudden knock on the door… What if I have a visitor already? What if someone sees him? How would I explain? What if he feels as if someone threatened him? Would he become violent again? The burden of keeping him a secret from the people I have around me, the people I work with and call friends, nags at my conscience and even though I'm not afraid of him, I'm still afraid. I don't know anything about the life he's lived and if he has old enemies that I should worry about. Or if it's his old friends that I should really be concerned about. I don't know anything, and I don't know how much longer I can stand that.

We nod and smile, we're polite with each other, but we've barely spoken since the first night he showed up. Instead we circle each other like two wounded animals, knowing that the first who brings the claws back out may actually be the one who gets out of here alive - or becomes the end of both of us and the frail world we've built for our little non-family.

He leans back against my table, crosses his arms over his chest and glances at the orange tinged sky over the ocean. "I think she's sleeping. I should be on my way."

The sun is setting, dropping fast somewhere on the other side of the canopy. It should be a peaceful moment but I itch with frustration.  _ Where do you go when you're not here? When will you be back the next time? Are you out killing people between your visits here? _

"Why?" I ask, my voice trembling with held back irritation.

"Why am I leaving?" He gives me a weird look and I shake my head. "Why what, then?" He looks at me as he rubs his forehead and sits down on a chair. Small beads of sweat pearl at his temples and make his hair curl slightly from the damp.

_ Why do you come here? _ "How come you… felt that I was special when you were stalking me and when you held me hostage …on that plane… I mean… there must've been many…"

"Many what?" There's a hint of tease in his voice. "Girls?"

"Hits. Stakeouts."

" _ Stakeouts! _ "

"It's not  _ funny _ ! I don't know… what you call it."

"You watch too many movies, Lisa."

"Don't make fun of me, please. "

He holds his hands up. "Sorry, sorry. It's just… sorry."

I don't say anything. I'm humiliated enough as it is and he has a  _ lot _ to explain.

"Ehm…" He scratches his chin and I'm close enough to hear his nails rasp against the stubble. "All right. We're back there again, then?" He sinks down on a chair opposite me. 

I'm quiet. He already knows what it is that I want.

He inhales deeply and then lets the air back out. "I've been coming here… what? Four months now?"

_ Is it October already? _ "Five," I say."It's five."

"Five, alright, and you bring this up  _ now _ . Why?"

_ Because you're so thick to not realize!  _ "I've been waiting… expecting  _ you _ to explain yourself, but that's never going to happen, is it?"

"Leese… I… I really thought we'd been through this already. I know we've talked about it before. What is it you want from me?"

I inhale and gather some courage. "I want to know what it is  _ you _ want from  _ me _ . I want to know why. What started it all… why are we here today after all that… happened. I want to know… you." I almost whisper the last word as I bite my lips hard and force myself to meet his gaze, bracing myself for whatever there's to come.

Jackson regards me for a long time. A really long time and I'm beginning to think that I won't get any answers when he inhales and begins. "Okay… Initially, Lisa, you were such a bore… really. And I had to watch you for  _ two _ fuckin' weeks."

"Two? But you said-"

"The Keefe administration postponed their trip three times. I thought it wasn't gonna happen at all. And you did  _ nothing _ of interest. I couldn't even figure out how you could tell a Tuesday from a Saturday. After a few weeks, though, having nothing else on my mind, I started getting curious. You stuck out, and  _ that _ is interesting."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? Here's this pretty chick, cheerleader type, smart, top of the crop. And she never dates. I saw you go out  _ twice _ in eight weeks, both times with some girl you worked with. You certainly drew guys attention but you seemed oblivious to them, or even actively fending them off. And I started asking myself why. You were a real enigma. Most people aren't. Most people are very plain, straightforward, they think they keep all these secrets, everybody thinks they do, but they're  _ so _ easy to crack open." He waits. His eyes narrow as he seems to try to gauge my reaction to what he's saying. 

I don't move a muscle. "So?"

He spreads his arms. "So you intrigued me. When we actually met the first time, I was dying to spend a few moments in your company before I had to get to work, to see what you were like. If you were really that cold - or if I could pierce that shell."

I tense. "Wasn't that pretty dumb?"

He cocks his head and waits for me to continue.

"Yeah… If you'd concluded from your… 'surveillance' that I was so shy… why would I be different around you?"

At least he has the decency to blush and he can't hide the almost invisible squirm. "I… usually succeed… with that."

I raise an eyebrow. "With wha-  _ That's _ what you do? Seduce your victims?"

He swallows and glances out the window for a moment before he looks back at me, his eyes suddenly colder. "I do what's necessary for a successful outcome."

My head spins from the implications. I try to grasp where I fit in the calculation and a shudder ripples through me. "Were you meant to seduce me?"

"That was one possible strategy that we discarded early on."

I can't look at him. I try to fathom that I could have been involved in a plot where Jackson would have pretended to… what? Court me? I find myself almost preferring the way things played out. I'd rather be beaten black and blue than have someone pretend to be in love with me. What if I had fallen in love with him? I would have been crushed. I feel almost sick. "But… I don't get it…" I find it hard to talk to him, to meet his gaze. I can't believe there can be so much cruelty in the world. I can't believe, again, that I'm sitting here… with  _ him _ .

"What don't you get?" He sounds patient, like a father explaining something to his child and something about that makes it hard to breathe. It  _ still _ feels as if he's not really bothered by what he did.

"If you 'liked' me… as you said you did. Why did you try to kill me? Why did you-" I swallow. I still find it so hard. "Rape me?"

"Leese… I've tried to explain that… so many  _ fucking _ times. I  _ liked _ you… I was attracted to you, and I thought I was going to get you… and you  _ rejected _ me, waved me off like I was nothing, already first at the airport… then you kept up this air of superiority throughout the whole fucking flight. No matter what I did… I felt like trash. I felt like I was  _ nothing _ , and that cocky fucking attitude of yours infuriated me." He snarls the last words, but I ignore the warning signals.

"How could you have expected me to react in  _ any _ other way?" I hiss. I cross my arms defensively over my chest and lean back, away from him. I've heard it before, but these words, from his mouth, feel like such a threat every time. Every time we try to talk it's like opening Pandora's Box again.

His upper lip curls as he leans forward. He's so close that I feel his hot breath on my face. "You still think I'm trash,  _ don't _ you!"

' _ October 11, 2008. Friday. _

_ Tonight didn't work out well. We argued. Or I think we argued because I'm really quite afraid to bring out something that I wouldn't know how to handle and I almost have a feeling that he's afraid of that too because he just left. Almost while we were still talking. He seems to have to put a lid on around me, as if he's actually making an effort to behave. I know he doesn't think I do, but I see it, I see his struggle, I know he wants to convince me that he deserves to be a part of our lives somehow. _

_ I get one little piece at a time now. The hows and the whys. And maybe I'll even see the full picture someday. If he ever lets me. But I don't plan to stop trying to crack that shell anytime soon. _

_ I need to get some sleep. It's much too late and I have work tomorrow.' _

I'm working at the front desk today because of a shortage in staff. It used to be fun. My old people-pleasing days aren't over, but my heart's not in it anymore. I glance at Cynthia. At the chirping, smiling Cynthia. And at her scar. I have a problem. A pressing matter that makes me increasingly worried. Every day at work I have a hard time meeting her gaze. We never go out anymore and I find it difficult to be even friendly with her because of the guilt that's consuming me. Because of the lie I live with.

It's Cynthia. Cynthia versus Jackson. Jackson versus Cynthia.

Cynthia could tear it all to pieces. She alone could put Jackson away for maybe a couple of years, and once they have him, God only knows what more they could dig up about him. I'm constantly on my toes. Not for me, but for Cece. I don't care if he goes to jail, if he would just disappear, but he  _ is _ Cece's father. For real. Not just biologically. And that means something. In fact, that means a lot.

I have gone over this in my head so many times. Either I talk to Jackson and tell him to watch out. But how can I be sure that he wouldn't take things into his own hands and try to get rid of her?  _ 'If someone threatened Cecilia, you… or me…' _ Or I talk to Cynthia and let her know that he is back and that he is behaving and that he means so much to Cece. But why would she refrain from telling the cops where they can find him? Why wouldn't she want revenge and justice to be served? I'm afraid to create a disaster, so I do nothing.

I do nothing and time flies. Weeks turn into months and one day it is too late. One day disaster finds us.

We're strolling along the sidewalk next to an endless line of restaurants and fashion boutiques. We're just out walking on a not too hot day in November. Cece is holding Jackson's hand and I walk on the other side, keeping her between us, as always. I feel her warm and sticky little hand slide into mine, and as I grab it and squeeze, everything happens at the same time. Out of nowhere we're suddenly face to face with Cynthia. As if in slow motion I get the whole picture at once. She's seen me and Cecilia. She's seen Jackson and recognized him. I register the fright and betrayal on her face. I want to tell her to not run, but there's no time. I see a cascade of red hair and then she disappears into the crowd before us. Jackson is just as fast and has let go of Cece's hand as he shoots forward and disappears.

For a moment I'm stunned. Then I act on instinct. I have to save her. I have to persuade Jackson to not kill her, for our daughter, for Cynthia, for Jackson… and for me. I swing Cece up on my hip and run after them, unsure of where they went, clueless as to if I'll find them in time. It's a nightmare, and the first few moments of blissful numbness is soon replaced by an increasing panic.  _ Where did they go? _ And as the seconds turn into minutes and I still don't see them, my whole world is falling to pieces, every little deception and smokescreen.  _ It was all a lie. I've been lying to myself the whole time. _

I don't know what makes me suddenly dart into an alley, if it's instinct, or if I actually hear a muffled cry. I spot them almost immediately behind some dumpsters, the organic garbage in them from the restaurant kitchen surrounding us in an almost unbearable stench. I see a thick curtain of red hair, thrashing, flailing, I  _ feel _ the terror in her body even though I can't even see her face yet. I feel it as if it's my own. I see Jackson, pressed up against her, looking like he's whispering in her ear, trying to force her to listen to him. Cece is about to say something and I cover her mouth with my hand as I sneak closer.

His hand is held tightly over Cynthia's mouth and her eyes are impossibly huge above the strong, spindly fingers that I know so well. "Jackson!" I hiss sharply.

He flinches and glares over his shoulder, taking in me and Cecilia who stares at him in shock.

"Let her  _ go _ ." I'm keeping my voice low, I don't want to upset Cece any more than necessary, but I'm sure he hears the snarl.

Jackson actually starts to drop his hand and I see, as well as he, how Cynthia draws breath to scream for her life. He's fast and his hand clamps over her mouth again. "Shut the fuck up," he hisses and I hear her terrified moan into his palm.

"Cynthia," I beg. " _ Please _ , don't scream. Let me explain… Please!" 

Her eyes, still wide with fear, dart from me to him and then back. Then she nods and Jackson immediately begins to release his grip on her face. She focuses on me, and me only. It's like she's shutting the sight of Jackson completely out of her mind. "Lisa," she whispers. "He's back."

It's quite the unnecessary statement.

"Is he hurting you? Is he holding you hostage?" Her voice quavers and her eyes dart to Cece who is squirming in my arms, then she scans my face as her eyes narrow.

Brave, sweet Cynthia. Does she think she can do something about it if that is the case? I shift my stance and let a still stunned daughter down on the grimy concrete. It's amazing how dirty and shady the alley is, mere feet away from the neon and the tourists. Anything could happen here and no one would be the wiser. Then I look at Cynthia, regretfully, the feeling of betrayal growing thick between us, and shake my head. "No," I mouth. My voice doesn't quite carry the word. "No," I say again. This time louder. And as I say that, as I betray the friendship, I also acknowledge Jackson, his presence in our lives; his meaning to Cece and to me.

Cynthia's knees buckle visibly as Jackson takes a step back. I suddenly see how soaked in sweat he is and how hard he's panting. I had no idea that this would affect him so much. I frown but focus on my frightened friend. "Please, Cynthia. I… he's been around for a while. He's not going to hurt you." I glance at Jackson. I hope I'm right. "Or me," I add.

 

**Fear**

When was the last time I felt actual fear?

I'm occupying Cecilia in one end of the alley while Lisa and her co-worker have an animated discussion at the other end. Sometimes the voices are loud, and sometimes they seem to be comforting each other. They glance at me, and then turn away and continue with their backs to me. I wish I knew what they are saying. It drives me crazy not to know, to not have control. My daughter pulls at my arm. "Daddy look!" She examines all the garbage, the half-skateboard, the pile of rotten, almost unrecognizable lettuce and tomatoes, the crumpled tin cans and the spread sheets of specked papers. I wonder where the rats went. Did I scare them off when I barged in here with that woman?

I'm extremely uncomfortable. If it were up to me, Cynthia Becker would be lying in that dumpster, getting colder each mile I lay between her body and myself. But it isn't up to me this time. Very uncharacteristically, I'm waiting. I'm waiting for Lisa to resolve this. If she doesn't… Well, then it's not that difficult. I can't risk the little I've got. I won't risk it.

I look at Cecilia as she picks up something slimy and squeezes it in her hand. I wrinkle my nose and look down the alley at her mother who's just hugging her friend and then starts back to us. I can literally hear Lisa's reaction to whatever is in Cece’s hands. Garbage. She doesn’t like garbage. I think of my own childhood. For the first time in my life I have something I really want, something I really need. No one's taking that away.

The redhead takes one long last glance at us before she turns and disappears in the other direction. I hope that's the last I see of her.

 

**Picnic Panic**

The doorbell clings with its cheery electronic tune. I look at my wristwatch. It's already half past ten. It's Saturday morning and Cece and I have had a long lazy breakfast. I didn't realize time had moved so fast. Pulling my robe tighter, I walk to the door and open it. I blink. I didn't expect it to be him. He's always arrived in the afternoon or evening. And he always knocks.

He smiles. "Hey."

"What's going on?" I ask, half ready to close the door in his face if needed.

"I- Hey Tiger!"

Cece comes rushing past me, slams the door fully open and throws herself in his arms. He spins her around as he keeps glancing at me, then he crouches and talks in her ear but clearly loud enough for me to hear. "Do you and Mommy wanna come with me for a little trip?"

_ No! _

The last time we went out ended in near disaster. Cynthia has been very reserved towards me since, and even though she finally promised me that she wouldn't run to the police, I never feel quite safe. It feels like tempting fate to go out together, possibly meeting her again. A twinge of hurt shoots through me. Did I actually choose this life? How did I end up like this?

"Yes!" She slithers out of his arms and jumps up and down in front of me. "Mama, come!"

I stiffen and glare at him. "What's this about?"

He purses his lips and then gives me a half smile, coy, full of secrets. "I'd like very much to take her to my place. Just for an hour or so. You're going to your Mom's on Christmas, and I understand that… I was just hoping I could have her a little to myself before you leave." He licks his lips and shifts stance. "And since I'm figuring you're not very prone to leaving her alone with me-"

"You're damn right I won't!"

"Then I'm asking if you'd both like to come."

_ No. I don't.  _ I look at my daughter who runs back and forth, collecting things in her little red Minnie Mouse bag, preparing herself as if for a picnic, and my heart softens. She loves him so much.  _ She _ trusts him, why can't I?

"How far away is it?"

"Forty-five minutes."

"We could already have plans."

"Then I'll come back when you don't."

"You already know we don't have any plans."

He doesn't answer, and that's answer enough. I hadn't even thought of _ that _ .  _ Stupid! _ "Do I have to look for hidden cameras in here?" I snarl.

"No, Leese. You don't. And if I had hidden them, you wouldn't find them anyway. But I don't have to keep you under surveillance to know you're still living more or less like a hermit."

And that's like challenging me to dare to say that we won't come.  _ Damn you! _ "I've improved."

"Yes, you have."

"Cece and I are going in my car," I say, defensively.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

He raises his eyebrows and nods. Cecilia is ready. She's pulled on her sandals, the left one on the right foot and vice versa. It's a fifty-fifty chance and she almost always gets it wrong. And when I try to correct her she glares at me with those bright blue eyes that says 'I'm fine', daring me to take it further.

I leave it.

 

**Next Time We’ll Swim**

Poor Lisa.

She's so cute. She thinks she's so clever, so careful, passing my house in her car every ten minutes. She has no clue that if I wanted to I could be out of here, with Cecilia, in two. If I wanted to, I would have planned it ahead of time; I'd switch cars twice even before we left the Sunshine State, I'd use cash only, and carefully prepared aliases for my daughter and myself. She wouldn't stand a chance. But I'm not planning on going anywhere, and if she thought about it, that would be her real headache. I can be really fucking stubborn. And I usually get what I want. Sooner, or later.

She's brave, though, I gotta hand it to her. She actually let me have Cecilia here, on my own, for an hour. I never dared to believe this would work out, but it did. The little one is investigating her room, my room, the garden, the contents of the fridge, and every little corner of the too-large, up until now tragically empty, house that I've bought.

Lisa's car is just coming up around the curb again as I feel a little hand tugging my sleeve. "Dad. Come!"

I let her pull me across the living room, past the white hot patio and over to the fence.

"Swim!" she exclaims, fighting the 'w' in the word.

"Not today, Princess. We don't have enough time."

"Time! Yes!" She pulls my arm and lets it go to, impressively quickly slipping out of her dress, her socks and her shoes. "Swim."

"Mommy's coming soon, Ce." And then I say it. The thing I hope for with all my heart. "Next time. Next time we'll swim."And hell, do I hope I'm not lying.

When Lisa picks her up, she eyes me suspiciously as she smiles at our chattering daughter. I don't say anything. I'm not gonna reassure her anything. She isn't ready yet, she's as stubborn as our child, and she has to do the math on her own.

I spend the next twenty-four hours away from my home, in a rented little apartment in town, glued to my laptop, checking my surveillance equipment for any unnatural activities on the street, or around my house. Just in case she called the cops.

She's becoming dangerous to me now.

Leese.

She knows much too much about me. It makes me uncomfortable.

The only unusual thing I see through the cameras is Lisa's car, late that evening, slowly driving past my house, almost stopping, and then speeding away at an almost reckless pace. I frown and wonder what that means. Did she want something? Is she checking me out? I almost laugh out loud. Is  _ she _ keeping track of  _ me _ ?

When I'm not with Cecilia, or Lisa and Cecilia, I take long walks in my neighborhood. It's a thriving community, each house is worth millions, and still most of them  _ suck _ at protecting themselves.

Someone like me could hurt them so much.

Someone like me could  _ help _ them so much.

When I'm not with my daughter, or with Leese and our daughter, I start thinking about how I could transform all the hard-earned knowledge that I've got about security systems - and cracking them - into something that'd be useful.

Something that'd be  _ decent _ and useful.

We swim in my pool. Cecilia splatters and laughs as I plow her through the water. It's Saturday in late March and I have her to myself the whole day. We're finally getting the hang of things and it's not always a party every time I meet her now. She has shown me samples of those infamous Rippner Mood Swings. I know I shouldn't smile at her when she has a fit, but I can't help but laugh out loud. Poor Lisa. She's my little girl all right.

I almost, almost ask Lisa to stay for dinner.

But I don't.

One day I will.

One day she will be ready.

 

**Tranquility**

I look at us as others must see us. We're picture perfect. We look like any other young couple at the beach, the mother sitting on a blanket, reading a book in the sun, the father playing in the shallow water with their almost three-year old daughter.

If they only knew.

I shake my head as I close the journal and put the pen down. I brought it because I figured I could catch up while we're here, lazily sitting in the shadow, doing close to nothing. But the heat has eaten my will to express my thoughts. I have nothing to say. I pick up the book instead as I glance again at father and daughter, studying Jackson's movements when I know he isn't looking. He is good with her, really good. He's good  _ for _ her. When he brought Cecilia back yesterday he tucked her in and then lingered in the doorway, his eyes expressing a silent wish, a look I know all too well. I said good night and closed the door, leaning against the uncaring wood for a long time after he left.

Does time heal all wounds? I don't know. At least it makes it harder to remember why they hurt in the first place. He sacrificed himself for our daughter. No matter who he is, and what he has done in the past, it doesn't really matter anymore.

I smile to myself as I pick up the journal again and lift the pen.

' _ March 22, 2009, Sunday. _

_ He hasn't asked me to forgive him. _

_ Yet. _

_ I know that one day he might ask. _

_ One day, when that happens, I will be prepared and I will have an answer.' _


End file.
